


Hiraeth

by felixfvlicis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Imagery, M/M, Memory Tampering, Surrealism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-19 18:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10645128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixfvlicis/pseuds/felixfvlicis
Summary: After finding out about his relationship with Harry, Draco's father sends him away and Harry can't find him anywhere. When Draco returns he comes straight back to Harry, but there's something different about him. Something Harry can't quite put his finger on.





	Hiraeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/gifts).



> Many thanks to A, J, and L for their meticulous beta work and constant encouragement when my doubts threatened to sabotage this story. You all are wonderful. ♥
> 
> To [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft): Thank you for such a thrilling prompt. I've been an admirer your work for the longest time, so I hope that I've written something you enjoy. The pleasure was mine.

_ Hiraeth (n.) - A longing to be where your spirit lives; a home you cannot return to -- for it never was. _

* * *

 

 

**I.**

_ We’ll see just who’s laughing in the end.   _

I never anticipated the resurrection of those words.  As a steady stream of crimson drips from my chest, staining the murky water beneath me, it’s clear that, once again, Potter will prevail. His pursed lips and the terror etched on his face is the last thing I see before my world goes dark.  

**II.**

 

“What did you need, Father?”  The question pushes itself from my mouth, a victim to the anchor embedded in the soles of my shoes.

Father’s hand closes around the door handle, like he has the power to bend anything to his will.  His venomous movements latch onto my skin, travel up my spine and grab hold of my neck, a silent reminder of what I could be reduced to should I refuse to obey him.  

He pushes a strand of stringy, blond hair behind his ear.  If I look close enough, I can make out a subtle grey tint against his temple.  His skin is scarred and stretched thin, a veil for his sharp cheekbones.  He’s aged rapidly since the end of the Second Wizarding War.  It’s less penance than he deserved.

“Draco,” he says through clenched teeth, as if his mouth is full of ash and he’s choking.  “How predictable you are.”  He cuts his eyes at me; a quiet chuckle escapes his lips.  It’s so reminiscent of the Dark Lord’s laughter that I forget what it feels like to breathe.  “After all I’ve done for you … the pain your mother endured for you, you still choose to dishonor the Malfoy name by taking up with that  _ filthy _ half-blood.”

I close my eyes and inhale.  My fists clench automatically, round nails dig into my palms, birthing half-moons against pale flesh.  Warm air escapes my lips as I open my eyes and turn to face him.  “Well,” I begin, thankful that my voice has the decency to remain steady.  “It’s clear that you’ve evolved since the war.”  I scoff and roll my eyes.  “And further,  _ Father  _ \--” I spit and it reminds me so much of the way Harry’s name used to fall from my mouth.  I fight the urge to cringe.  “ _ Harry _ is the reason you’re not rotting in Azkaban.  I’d think you be more grateful.  Perhaps you’ve forgotten your manners?”  

His usually vacant eyes go wide before hardening, cutting into my flesh -- their sting reminiscent of Sectumsempra.  He moves toward me, heavy footsteps echoing off the walls surrounding us, rattling the windows.  His palm is tightly curled around that hideous walking stick, its sharp clicking sound vibrating the floors beneath our feet.

“How  _ dare _ you speak to me that way.  You think you’re so clever, but it’s  _ you _ who has forgotten -- your future remains in my hands.”  His voice is calm, measured.  I allow my eyes to roam over his figure.  His face is devoid of cuts or scars, though his eyes look hollow, a house for Azkaban’s ghosts.  His shoulders are bony, and the skin covering his forearm looks rough, like sandpaper.   The Dark Mark remains ink-filled and vibrant.  He notices my eyes lingering on its shape, its deep color, how it still looks  _ alive _ .  A sinister smile pulls at the corners of his lips. 

“You  _ disappoint _ me, Draco.  You’re blinded by infatuation and curiosity.  I was certain your naivete would one day get the best of you.  Despite my efforts, you’ve failed to learn your lesson: without power, you have nothing.” 

My breath hitches as I feel the sharp serpent’s teeth of his walking stick dig into my shoulder.  He holds it steady and murmurs an incantation that sounds eerily similar to the one that used to tumble from the Dark Lord’s lips, the syllables slithering off his tongue and down his robes.  The words fall from his mouth and latch onto my skin, pushing me to my knees.  The moment he lifts the sharp, silver teeth from my shoulder, my world goes dark.

  
  


**III.**

 

My body blankets a small patch of earth, round nails digging into the dirt beneath me.  Panic swells in my chest, threatening to asphyxiate me.  Despite my trembling hands, I push myself from the ground.  A vacant sky hovers over me, its dark poison infiltrating the branches of the trees longing to whisper in the surrounding wind.  This place feels like death.  An abandoned mausoleum of memories.  I bring a hand to my cheek, brushing a streak of dirt across my pale skin.  The smell of fire and ash overwhelms me.   _ Snap. _  A whisper.  Footsteps slither along the forest floor.  I swallow, pushing down the bile that threatens to make itself at home in my mouth.  

“He’s not comin’, ‘specially not for the likes of yeh.”

The old oaf.  I’d know that gruff, idiotic voice anywhere.  

“What a  _ pity _ .”

The clipped words that fall from his mouth still haunt me in my sleep, dripping with venom and a childlike masquerade that forces even the bravest of wizards to disintegrate before his eyes.  I shiver, feeling the serpent resurrect itself underneath my pale skin.  My arm burns from the inside out, the pulse of the Dark Mark threatening to rip the stitches Harry sewed me up with all those years ago.

_ Harry. _

I close my eyes, imagining his deep green eyes, body hovering over mine, beneath the white sheets as the sun paints ribbons of light on our bodies.  In the silence that surrounds me, I can feel his sweet whisper, warm against the crook of my neck, the curve of his mouth as it morphs into a smile.  It’s almost enough.

A sharp crack reverberates through the trees.  I hear Hagrid’s sharp inhale and feel the heaviness of his head hanging in defeat.  Despite being drawn to the warmth that passes me, I’m anchored to the spot, shackled by invisibility.  

“How  _ lovely _ to see you, Harry.  I didn’t think you’d show.”

Instinctively, I pull my hand from the earth’s floor and cover my mouth.  Bits of dirt cling to my lips; the scent of decay fills my nostrils.  I heave and it feels like I’m choking on air.  Heavy tears linger on my cheeks.  

I watch him step to the Dark Lord, a foot of mossy earth separating them, ashes of the fallen tangled within.  His shoulders are square and his wand dangles between his fingers at his side. I can just make out the expression in his eyes, their reflection mirroring against his glasses.  The look of surrender.

Ruinous whispers assault my mind, their teeth penetrating flesh, a steady stream of blood dripping from their lips -- ripping away my memories of Harry until his demise is all that remains.  A guttural sound escapes my throat, piercing my eardrums.  I want to tear my skin off in pieces, to watch the blood splatter all over earth’s bed, a sacrificial blanket.  I lunge forward, overcome with the need to get to Harry.  That’s when I see it, flickering beneath moonlight; a glass barrier.  Without thinking, I push my hand deep into the fabric of my back pocket, panic threatening to seize me once I curse its emptiness.  I haven’t carried a wand in months.

I allow myself to blink, once, transfixed on the way the Dark Lord grips his wand.  The sallow flesh covering his resurrected bones is stretched thin, though his fingers settle into the grooves of the Elder Wand as if he were born to commandeer this much power.

I watch Harry’s fingers close tightly around his wand.  The Dark Lord’s lips are pursed, but there’s a gleam in his eye.  He looks wickedly victorious.  A stream of green light emits from his wand and Harry falls, lifeless, to the ground.  It’s then, in the silence, that I hear my father’s voice, as the Dark Lord’s eyes lock with mine:

 

_ "Death is a kinder fate than you deserve, Draco.  Such a pity you failed to learn your lesson as a boy." _

My fingers tremble as I convulse with sobs. Bile -- yellow and thick -- flows out of my mouth between gasps of air.  The Dark Lord’s murderous, blood-red gaze burns a hole in the blackness behind my eyes, assaulting me.  I scream until my throat is raw and I can taste blood as it bubbles, rising.  I press my cheek against the dark, decaying earth.  The anchors of time pull at my eyelashes, the whisper of surrender caught in its throat.

  
  
  


**IV.**

 

Harry is the last person I expect to see as my feet hit the floor with a thud.  Yet, here he is, alive and sprawled out across  _ my _ Victorian rug in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place, pages of the _ Daily Prophet _ masking his face.  The sound of crackling embers in the fireplace fill the room.  The smell of ash overwhelms me.  I fight the urge to choke.

I stumble backward, steadying myself against the wall.  My knees buckle and a bead of sweat threatens to fall from my nape and drift down my spine, latching itself on the curve. Sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating the blanket of dust atop the antique piano in the corner.  It feels entirely too warm.  Nothing -- other than the rug -- seems familiar.  

I watch Harry’s hands descend into his lap, the  _ Prophet’s  _ pages splayed out like a map in front of him.  His piercing green gaze is enough to bring me to my knees.  Interpreting the slight purse of his lips as warm recognition, I pull myself away from the wall.

“Harry?” I whisper, trekking forward, fingers trembling at my sides.

His expression is curiously passive as he traps his bottom lip between his teeth.  The subconscious, innocent gesture has always made my head fog with lust, and this is no exception.  I tug at the collar of my navy henley, nearly tearing through the fabric with the force of my grip.  The longer I study him, the more I see -- the look in his eyes remains unchanged, though a rosy tint stains his cheeks.

Deafening silence envelops me as I step closer to him.  The bold, fiery flames living in the hearth wither to embers.  Chill wraps its calloused hands around my throat, before dropping to its knees and pinning my ankles to the ground.    

“Harry?”  This time, I nearly choke on his name.

He looks at me, then -- a sinister smile forming on his lips.

 

_ "Death is a kinder fate than you deserve, Draco.  Such a pity you failed to learn your lesson as a boy." _

 

As the last syllable tumbles from his lips, he disintegrates into ash, a continuous hiss abandoned in its wake.  His voice identical to my father’s.

I inhale remnants of ash and taste my own blood, warm sharply-sour before my world goes dark once more.  

 

**V.**

 

I wake to the violent sound of waves crashing underneath me, rattling the bricks that line the dingy cells.  A harsh wind blows through as I push myself up on all fours.  Stone-coloured dust falls from above, latching onto my skin like a veil.  The smell of rotting flesh overwhelms me, and before I can catch myself, I heave, sucking in the dust that coats my tongue like ash -- a harsh reminder that payment must always be made.  I kneel, running a finger over my hollow, sharp cheekbone.  I can feel half-moons rooting themselves deeper into the skin underneath my eyes.  I manage to inhale, ignoring the metallic taste of blood in the back of my throat.

After a few moments, the waves cease their fury.  A whisper lingers against my earlobe, no more than a soft murmur.  Despite its weakness, I feel called to it.  I shiver as it seeps underneath my skin and clings to my bones.  The sound of my name.  

Stupefied, I make my way toward the frail, broken murmur.  The closer I get, the more chaotic it becomes, mimicking the rise and fall of the waves underneath me.  A shadow emerges from the dark corner cell, a sliver of gray light illuminating stringy blond hair sleek with grime.

“Help me, Draco.”

Father’s voice is strained.  I half expect his eyes to match the rest of him, a living corpse.  Yet, the blue in his eyes pierces my skin, and I revel in the steady drip of blood as it coats my ribs.  An incessant breeze tangled in madness.

My eyes roam over his frail frame in an attempt to bide time.  I clench my jaw and step forward, focusing on the iron bars that imprison him.  The man I wanted to be.   _ Before. _  The room is eerily silent, save for Father’s ragged breaths.  His lips are beginning to turn grey.  It won’t be long now.  Instinctively, I think of Harry, and the words tumble from my lips. 

“If by help, you mean torture, nothing would satisfy me more.”

He coughs, curling his fingers around the iron bars.  

“I’m disappointed in you, Draco.”

“I’m shocked.”  I hiss, my teeth clenched.  I turn away from him, fighting the urge to sneer.  A whisper settles against the nape of my neck.

“He’s alive.”

Once more, my ears are assaulted with the sharp crash of waves below.  The room goes cold, and Father’s voice echoes in the depths of my mind.

_ Harry.  _

  
  
  


**VI.**

 

A sliver of light cuts through the darkness, reflecting off the windowpane.  Cracks of thunder vibrate the floor beneath my feet, nearly causing me to jolt from my bed.  The scent of medicinal herbs entwined with potions surrounds me, and I feel strangely hollow.

I shift my hips underneath the sweat-soaked sheets before raising my hands to my chest.  I inhale and it feels as if I’ve sucked all the air from the room.  My chest burns, heavy with unease.  Unconsciously, I dig my nails into the scars tattooed on my flesh, clawing deeper until I feel some sort of release.  Just as the first drop of blood begins to bloom, a warm, calloused hand rests on my forearm -- a silent plea to cease.

Despite my blurred vision, I can make out a small onyx stone resting between the lines of his open palm.  As I reach out to touch him, he places his hand against my shoulder and pushes the Resurrection Stone into my skin, splitting it, digging divots in my bones as blood trickles down my bicep.  What is he preparing me for?

Thrashing and half out of my mind with pain, I wince and release a half-hearted whimper.  

“Father, please.  Make it stop.  I promise I’ll ---”

The room begins to spin, and somehow, I know what comes next.

When I open my eyes, Harry’s hovering above me, caressing my cheek with his palm.

“Draco,” he whispers, so tender and familiar that I want to drown in it.  I’d pitch myself from the open windows of Azkaban and into the violent, watery depths below if it meant I could hear my name tumble from his lips like that.  “You were screaming . . . begging for your father to make it stop.”

He looks at me with concern and something resembling pity.  I pull away from his touch and cower in on myself, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“Draco,” he says again, his voice ladened with caution.  “Your father died in Azkaban.  Six months ago.”

  
  


**VII.**

 

The moment the serpent moves beneath my skin, I feel it in my bones.  Sharp, insistent whirrs assault my mind.  I sit up, shift my hips, and dangle my legs off the bedside.  Lightning strikes, and the black sky bursts with it, rattling the windows outside.  My body thrums with anticipation of the requiem.

I dress swiftly, pressing the wrinkles out of my black satin tie before brushing my palms against my thighs.  A strand of hair kisses my lashes as I bend to lace my shoes.  His voice clings to my neck, a steady hiss.

As I step out of the infirmary, the desolate halls of Hogwarts greet me.  Even the ghosts are silent tonight.  The click of my soles against the stone floor is not enough to drown out his heavy, thick murmurs.  With each step, I roll my wand loosely between my fingers.

  
I understand what I must do. 


End file.
